


A Passing

by Artistic_Fuss



Series: Random Works [1]
Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Death Implied, Gen, detail practice, practice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 22:14:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17989484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artistic_Fuss/pseuds/Artistic_Fuss
Summary: There was a death in the family, and she has the home to herself.





	A Passing

The woman’s gloved fingers hook on loose ends of nails and splintering wood. Her hand shaking as they hold onto the door frame, knuckles pale white under the black lace from their grip. She waves goodbye to her final visitor. Paint from the frame clings to the black fabric as her hand comes away, falling to the mud-covered floor as she turns away. The heavy door swings closed with too solid of a thump, and the latches screech closed. Her hands linger on the door, following grooves cut deep into the wood. Red rimmed eyes, still wet with tears, blink away the last of her sadness and she raises her head hight. Flecks of red paint from her glove sprinkle across her face as she removes the veil covering her eyes. Her fingers link delicately before her as she gazes around the now empty home. The clack of her shoes echo through long halls and rooms empty of life. Fingers gripping the hem of her gown as she moves up the stairs. Stairs that creak under her steps, the house groaning in the early spring weather. Cold breezes seeping through the windows and below the doors blow her skirts, causing her to grip them tighter, raise them higher, her steps quickening.    
  
Her skirts fall back down as she lets them go, brushing the dust from the floor while she fumbles with cold fingers for the study key. Gloves catching on the rusting metal she tosses the black lace to the floor and feels the metal against her fingers. The key ring jingles jollily as she turns the key in the lock and presses her shoulder to the wood, shoving the door open with a huff. She stumbles entering the room. The light catches dust as it floats through the air, disturbed by her forceful entrance.    
  
Striding into the room, the woman disturbed more dust, it gathers on her skirt hems, and she throws open stained glass doors to the balcony. Spring wind gusting her gown and petticoat. The doors knocking against metal railings. Her veil is blown from her head and her hair unravels from its bun.    
  
Below her, the last carriage is heading home.    
  
Her hands grasp the metal railing, and she takes a large lung full of crisp spring air. Shoulders rising and falling. Those red-rimmed eyes fall closed, she breathes deeply again, breathing out her hands let go of the railing, and opens her eyes.    
  
She shall let his spirit rest. The priests have put him at ease and the townspeople have given her their grievances. She shall take them and put them to paper. Cover clear paper with the pain of herself and others until it is marked with as much black as her body in her mourning gown. 

Letting go of the old metal railing of the balcony she turns back to the dusty room. The dust has settled once more. Desks pushed up against walls, papers and books piled upon them, mildewed. She steps over to one of the desks and brushes the dust from its top, causing her to sneeze, and she pulls open a top drawer. Numerous old pens and inks rest in the drawer and topple over when she pulls the drawer open. She glances over them and pushes the drawer closed again. The next is full of letters. The woman takes a seat on the desktop and shuffles through the letters.


End file.
